The First Day of Goodbye (Wizarding Short Stories Book 5)
by Lady Yvaine
Summary: Read along as each member of the next generation bids farewell to his or her loved ones and boards the Hogwarts express for the first time. Each goodbye is different, but alike in one facet: each character deals with separation differently. Who will they meet? With whom will they sit? See my page for other books of short stories surrounding the next generation!
1. Chapter 1

There knelt the girl with the pale red hair, in the place she loved most, surrounded by the words that soothed her so. The tales of much braver men than she lay stacked upon the white shelves that lined the tiny, neat bedroom nestled at the very top of 2 Warrington Park, London. The tangled nest of hair that balanced on the top of her head bobbed as she rushed to collect the precious volumes scattered at her feet. Soft morning light streamed in through the open window behind her, drenching the Spartan room in the faintest shade of gold. Dawn has barely kissed the heavens above, but she found that she could sleep no longer. The girl with the thicket of pale red hair had felt compelled to awaken before the sky on this, the first day of the rest of her fantastical life. Wishing to not miss a single moment of it, but longing still to be but a girl, she quickly maneuvered the toppled books into a motley stack, cradled in her cupped arms. Striding deftly over to the nearest bookshelf, she proceeded to finesse each book back onto the bookshelf amongst its strategically placed fellows. In her bookshelves, she sought order where little could be found; she knew how moot it was to implement a definitive standard by which to organize her most prized possessions, so she had settled on cataloging them by color. A rainbow of knowledge sat before her, tempting her with every blink of her eye. The shy grin that spread across her face was the very same that always lit her face when whenever she thought about her personal rainbow.

"Rosie?" The gentle knock that followed immediately after the familiar, tender voice of her mother had Rose shoving the final book, The Canterbury Tales, in between its neighbors before she turned toward the door behind which Hermione Granger-Weasley stood.

"Come in," called Rose, her eyes scanning the room for any blatant signs of disarray. She found none. Sighing in relief, Rose flopped onto the large bed that took up a majority of the room, challenged only by the aforementioned shelves that lined every wall.

Smiling tentatively, Hermione crept into her eldest child's bedroom, a cheery yellow if clutched in her right hand. "Brought you some tea," she said, placing the mug on the white table beside the bed.

"Oh," Rose smiled back at her mother. "Thanks, mum."

"I wasn't sure if you wanted to eat anything for breakfast or-" she trailed off, her eyes stopping on the knot of hair standing brazenly on top of her daughter's head. "Is that how you're planning to wear your hair?"

"I think so," Rose replied, her hands moving to smooth out nonexistent creases along the edge of the blue and white duvet that stretched taut across her bed.

The feather-light touch of her mother's hand against her arm pulled Rose away from her obsessive straightening of the unwrinkled bedcovers. "Rose, dear, it's all right. Relax," Hermione advised soothingly as she collected a soft-bristled brush from the white vanity table. "Let me help you with your hair?"

Nodding in find resignation, Rose allowed her mother to push her onto the uncomfortable wooden stool by her vanity table. "Thanks, mum," she repeated, closing her eyes as her mother's warm breath tickled her cheek a the silver brush tugged through Rose's unruly hair.

"Just like mine when I was your age," Hermione noted as she dragged the brush through a particularly large snarl at the base of Rose's neck. "But don't you worry, Rose. We'll have you sorted out soon enough." With that promise, Hermione called for a bottle of her favorite hair potion. The small, round bottle came whizzing around the corner, halting at Hermione's elbow.

An interesting choice of words, Rose thought wryly as her mother doused her daughter's voluminous locks with copious amounts of the pungent potion contained in the bottle she had summoned. Sorted out- how apt that phrase was on this day, the first of September, 2017. She would indeed be sorted by the day's end.

"There we are," Hermione announced after no more than five minutes. "All done, Rose. Want to see?"

"No, thank you, mum," she shook her head. Already Rose could feel the sleek, silken brush of hair on the back of her neck. She lifted a hand. Sure enough, her mother had wrangled Rose's bushy red hair into an orderly ribbon of hair that trailed obediently past her shoulders.

"Are you nervous?" Hermione seemed to have surprised herself as she asked. Her eyes widened briefly, circling around the room before settling calmly back onto her daughter.

"No," Rose lied, "I'm all right."

"You're allowed to be nervous, Rose, darling. It's not unusual to be more than a bit apprehensive." Hermione rested a hand on her daughter's shoulder.

Gazing up at he mother, Rose thought she saw what it was about her mother that made other wizards stop and stare when their family passed. "I know, mum," Rose assured her. "I know where I should be sorted. I've already talked to dad about it."

Hermione's concerned smile dimmed, making way for- well, that couldn't be a scowl, could it? Rose squinted up T her mother. "Are you all right, mum?"

"Oh, your father!" She huffed, her fists curling at her sides. "Your father is an bloody-" she stopped, obviously remembering herself. "Rose, your father," Hermione began on an exasperated breath, "is often too close-minded when it comes to these sorts of things, you know."

"He said you would say that," Rose informed her softly. She rarely witnessed her mother work herself up into such a state. Whenever Hermione Granger-Weasley acted thusly, Ron Weasley was not far behind-either in person or in essence. No doubt, the mention of Rose's father was to blame for her mother's outburst. "He also said that the Weasley family is a family of Gryffindors."

"But there have been exceptions," Hermione's splotchy face tightened in rising irritation. "Don't worry, Rosie, dear, I'll straighten your father out. " With that, Hermione turned on her feet and hurried out of her daughter's room. "Best get dressed. We'll be leaving in less than an hour," Hermione barely paused to call over her shoulder as she stomped toward her and her husband's bedroom on the second floor.

"Sorry, dad," Rose muttered. Following her mother's last piece of advice, Rose dressed in the outfit she had selected the night before and tiptoed out of her bedroom for what felt like the final time. The Hogwarts express awaited her, whether she was ready to board it or not.


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm going to be a Slytherin," proclaimed the pale-haired boy, his pointed chin jutting proudly. "The Malfoys are always in Slytherin. The Greengrasses too, for that matter."

"I hope I'm not in Slytherin," grumbled the thin-faced boy with jet black hair, his fingers idly tugging on a loose thread that dangled from the hem of his jacket.

"Why? Slytherin is great. My dad was a Slytherin. He says I'll do just fine there. I hope he's right." The pale boy practically vibrated with excitement. "I'm Scorpius, by the way. Scorpius Malfoy." He offered a friendly hand and a warm smile to the boy with whom he found himself sharing a compartment on the Hogwarts express.

The thin-faced boy's pale green eyes widened in recognition. "My uncle says your dad is a right git," he informed Scorpius conversationally, a vein of condemnation not absent from his tone.

Scorpius shrugged affably. "Sometimes, yeah," Scorpius agreed. He dropped his outstretched hand, his eyes darting between it and the boy who sat across from him. "Least that's what my mum says when dad's in a particularly bad mood, But she was a Slytherin and I'd reckon she's the best mum in the whole world." A deep scarlet dawned across Scorpius' otherwise white face, cresting atop his generously round cheeks. He glanced away, pressing his face into the charcoal wool of his coat.

"I'm named after a Slytherin," the boy with the black hair admitted reluctantly, "and a Gryffindor. Albus Severus Potter." He winced.

"Really?!" exclaimed Scorpius, his eyes wide with unguarded curiosity. "Then Slytherins can't be all bad if your parents thought to name you after one. And anyway," he continued with a shy grin, "Slytherin's churned out some of the most famous wizards of all time. Merlin-"

"And Voldemort," Albus added, deadpan.

Scorpius flinched, his silver eyes flying wide. "yeah," he agreed after a nervous pause. "Him too, I suppose."

"Sorry," Albus muttered, his eyes cast downward at his scuffed trainers.

"That's all right."

An uncomfortable silence descended upon them. In the quiet, both boys sat stiffly, stealing covert glances at one another when they thought the other was not paying attention to his surroundings. The faint but persistent knock at the compartment door had both boys looking up in relief, eager to set eyes on their rescuer. In stepped none other than Rose Weasley, Albus' cousin and best friend.

"Hey, Al, why aren't you in your robes yet?" Rose asked, her left hand unconsciously twining into the smooth ribbon of pale red hair that laid flat along her shoulder.

"So that's where you went?" Albus asked. "To put on your robes."

"Not just that," said Rose a bit defensively. "I also popped by Vic's compartment to return a book I borrowed last week. And then, on the way back down the corridor, I ran into Molly and Louis. We got to talking about the things my dad said on the platform and..." She trailed off, her cheeks taking on the color of freshly boiled lobster.

"We won't arrive for ages, you know," Albus reminded her, shifting his belongings to make room for her in the seat beside him.

"Yes, Of course I know that," grumbled Rose, rolling her eyes. "But I wanted to be ready, just in case." She settled herself next to Albus, smoothing out her robes as she did so.

"In case of what, Rose? Someone invents time travel?" Asked Albus sarcastically.

"Too late. Someone's already done that," Rose replied primly.

"What? How do you-?" Albus began, but was cut off by Rose, who had narrowed her pale blue eyes on the third occupant of the compartment.

"I'm not supposed to talk to you." Rose informed Scorpius, who had been staring fixedly at her, mouth agog, from the moment she had entered.

"Oh," was all Scorpius could manage, though his eyes did not leave her face.

"My father thinks yours is a sniveling coward and a git to boot," she explained in a matter-of-fact tone, her thin brows raised.

"Right, so I've heard," Scorpius mumbled with a glance at Albus.

"And my granddad-" Rose continued, leaning toward him, her face animated.

"Oh, lay off, Rose," Albus commanded. He smacked a hand over her mouth, muffling the stream of words that fought to spill free. Eyes narrowing, Rose stuck out an elbow, jabbing her cousin in the side. With a hiss of pain, Albus released her. "You need to stop hanging 'round with Roxanne so much, Rosie. It's made you vicious."

"When I told you to go find us a compartment, I didn't expect you to choose the one with a blood purist in it," she bit out, her voice almost as shrill as Gran Weasley's got whenever all of her grandchildren visited at once.

"I'm not a blood purist," Scorpius protested meekly. Scorpius' feet skimmed the carpeted floor of the compartment as he swung them, producing a faint swishing sound.

"You're not?" Rose asked incredulously. "That's not what my father says, I'll have you know." Arms folded across her chest, Rose glared at him, apparently awaiting an explanation.

"I'm Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy," stated Scorpius Malfoy," Scorpius informed her, his silver eyes trained on his bouncing feet.

"I know," Rose said dryly, her eyes cast heavenward.

"Actually, you don't," Scorpius disagreed. "I'm not my dad, or my grandfather, or any other Malfoy you know of. I'll make my own mark on the world: I promise you that." After such a proclamation, he seemed to deflate. His face growing paler than Albus had ever seen on s living person, Scorpius snatched up a bundle of black fabric and darted out of the compartment, mumbling something about finding a free corner in which to don his robes.

"What's gotten into you now?" Asked Albus as he slumped back against his seat.

Rose released an aggregated sigh. "I've been mulling over what my father said on the platform."

"About Scorpius?"Albus raised a single brow, disbelief clear in the gesture.

"What? No!" Rose shifted in her seat to face him fully. Deep lines stood out at the sides of her mouth. In that moment, she greatly resembled her mother. "I'm talking about me potentially not being in Gryffindor. He expects it and I'm just not sure if-well, I even want to be a Gryffindor. I know the Weasleys are always in Gryffindor, but I'm a Granger, too."

Albus frowned in confusion. "Aunt Hermione was a Gryffindor, or don't you remember, Rosie?" The corner of Albus' mouth quirks up.

"Yeah, I know," she muttered, flopping back against her seat. "But dad said it himself: I inherited my mother's brains. I'm not so sure I inherited much else for either of them though. I'm not particularly brave or even the slightest bit reckless, like Roxanne or James. I like my books and I like music. That's about all with me."

"Rose, do you want to be a Gryffindor?" Albus inquired, laying a hand on her forearm.

Rose raised her head to meet her favorite cousin's eyes. "I don't want to disappoint my dad, Al. I can't disappoint him-I just can't."

"You won't, Rosie. I swear you won't," Albus promised, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "Uncle Ron loves you. He hasn't stopped being proud of you since that boring piano recital you had when we were five."

"He wasn't even sure what a piano was before that recital," remarked Rose, the shadow of a smile on her face.

"Now he does," Albus laughed, nudging her shoulder with his. "Look, Rose, I know how you're feeling. Really, I do. I don't want to be sorted into Slytherin-or at least," Albus spared a glance at the seat that was once occupied by peculiar Scorpius Malfoy, "I didn't. But I think I just want to be put in whatever house suits the wizard I want to become. I think that's what my father was trying to tell me all along. I want to be an Auror, just like my dad. Isn't that why we're sorted into houses in the first place?"

"Actually, students sorted into different houses because-"

Albus held up a hand, halting her before she could really get going. "I don't need a history lesson, Professor."

Rose scowled at him, loathing his use of the childhood nickname he had bestowed upon her. "But Al-"

"Just think about it, Rose. Promise me," Albus demanded, holding out a hand to her. "Promise me that, no matter what happens, we'll make the best out of our lot. Even if I'm saddled with Slytherin, I'll be an Auror someday."

Rose grasped his hand, trepidation clear in the tension that knit between her brows. "And I'll..." She paused. What did she want most of all? "I'll be Rose M. Weasley. Gryffindor...or not. I'll be the girl who loves playing the piano and reading her books and testing out new recipes with Gran."

"You ought to give up on that last one, Rosie," Albus suggested, in a teasing tone. "You're rubbish in the kitchen. Not even Gran was able to save your mince pie last christmas."

She shoved him playfully, "It wasn't supposed to be mince pie. It was a butterscotch custard!"

"My point exactly," he laughed.

"Al!" Rose nearly knocked him from his seat.

"Only joking. Stow your wand, woman."

Albus' cheeky grin was infectious. Rose found herself smiling, too. "Agreed." She shook his hand once, then released it to run her fingers through her hair. "Guess I ought to apologize the your new friend the," Rose stated, straightening her robes to their formerly unrubpled glory.

"He's not my friend," Albus disagreed, his face suddenly serious. "At least, not yet." His expression turned into one of unbridled contemplation. "But I think he'd make a good choice, if I'm honest."

 **Author's Note:**

First, I'd like to thank you for reading my work. Whether you stumbled upon it and decided to take a glance on a whim, or you're a follower of mine, I appreciate you.

Beyond emparting my gratitude, I would like to take the time to state that I thoroughly enjoyed writing both Rose's and Albus' stories. Rose's, in particular, was a whirlwind of frenzied expression. Her story began in the guise of a daydream. I saw a pensive girl with wild red hair surrounded by toppling stacks of books. I wrote the previous short story from there, taking what I had gathered from the Rose I met in that daydream.

The story above is the result of one hour and two cups of life-giving coffee; sometimes, the muse must be forced using coercion and far too much caffeine.

Again, I hope you like what you read here. Please leave me a review. As always, your words are my inspiration—be them friendly of otherwise. Let me know what you think of my interpretations of Rose, Albus, and Scorpius.

Until next time, Potterheads,

Ilove, Luna.


	3. Chapter 3

"Au revoir, Maman, " Victoire leaned forward, accepting a gentle kiss on each of her damp cheeks from her beloved mother.

Thick gray smoke billowed around Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, obstructing Victoire's view of her fellow students' farewells, for which she was thankful. It would not be appropriate to play intrusive witness to such emotional exchanges. Partings from one's loved ones should be private—or, at least, as private as one could manage at a bustling train station.

"Be sure to write us, darling. Your mother will worry herself sick until you do."

Fleur jabbed her chuckling husband in the ribs with a sharp elbow. "William, please." Poor Maman. She barely managed to keep the trembling from her voice, let alone muster a reproachful tone for Papa.

Victoire simply nodded. Her father's teasing reminder at Maman's expense only caused Victoire's heart to ache all the more. Soon she would be set off on her own; no Maman to confide in, no Papa to laugh with her, no Louis or Dominique to conspire with her. Victoire never thought she would long to remain in the company of her overbearingly attentive mother or hot-tempered younger sister when the tantalizing promise of knowledge beckoned her just beyond the sliding doors of a train compartment.

"Adieu, ma chérie. Be a dilligent, obedient girl. I expect only the best from ma etoile." Fleur mopped at her watery eyes with a lacy handkerchief given to her by her own mother, Madam Delacour.

"Je promets." I promise. The vow bounced around her whirling mind, echoing back to her again and again. Victoire's stomach gave a funny little twist.

"And no boys," her father, Bill Weasley added, his tone stern. His gaze darted around the rapidly emptying platform, a look of barely restrained mistrust agitating the line of his brows.

Eyes followed Victoire and Maman whenever they travelled beyond the safety of Shell Cottage. They both understood this, of course. After all, she and Maman very obviously had Veela in their blood. People couldn't help but "Tomber amoureux"—her grand-mère DeLacour's beaming proclamation each time an admirer's gaze fell upon her eldest granddaughter. But Victoire did not care to have complete strangers "fall in love" with her. It was her face they covete, not Victoire—not the girl beneath the beauty. Her Maman swore Victoire would become accustomed to the lust-tainted glances and envious awe that seemed to trail in Victoire's wake. Maman swore that Victoire would grow to accept and even be thankful for the privileges her uniqueness afforded her. Until then, however, Victoire must resign herself to yearning for even one day where she could seamlessly fade into the background.

One particular pair of eyes hadn't moved off Victoire since she had arrived onto the platform. One pair of harsh, violet-blue eyes narrowed on Victoire with pure, unmasked animosity. Disdain-riddled jealousy marred the girl's otherwise pretty face. The faint twinge of guilt filled the pit of Victoire's belly. Envy made people do ugly thing: scowling, sneering, and hissed insults were familiar responses to Victoire's presence.

Victoire fluttered her fingers uncertainly in the girl's direction. The other girl simply spun away, her nose thrust in the air as she sauntered up the platform and away from the clump of jabbering Weasleys.

" Vic." A familiar, jovial voice drew her back into the present. Lanky and curly-haired, the boy stared down at Victoire, his brown eyes bright with curiosity.

"Bonjour, Sebastian, êtes-vous prêt?" Victoire bit her lip. She needed a distraction.

His brows creased in exasperation. "Again with the French, Vic? You know I've only managed a few basic phrases: J'ai perdu mon pantalon and Teddy est mon maîtreand—that's it."

Now it was Victoire's turn to crease her brows. "I lost my pants," She translated the first phrase, only just holding back her laughter.

Sebastian nodded seriously. "Yes, indeed. I don't think your mother has looked me in the eye since she heard me say that last summer."

"Honestly, Baz, I am more concerned about the second bit—'Teddy is my master'?" She raised her eyes to peer at him. "You two are incorrigible."

"I lost a bet," his shrug was all good-natured resignation, and very 'Baz' of him. He tended to shrug off most things.

"What sort of bet?"

"Our friend Edward Lupin thought he could pull one over on me."

Oh no."

"Oh, yes," Sebastian grimaced. "A prank war. The loon challenged me—me!—to a prank war." He threw up his hands.

"And he won?" Victoire said hesitantly.

"Obviously." His scowl deepened comically. In a girlishly sweet, obscenely exaggerated french accent, Sebastian intoned "Teddy est mon maîtreand."

Victoire couldn't help it, she really couldn't. A burbling giggle sprang free from her, tickling the ears of all in her vicinity. Delighted gazes snapped to her, drinking in the amusement of the unearthly Veela girl.

Victoire's laugh broke off even as it began, her pale blue eyes cast downward much like Sebastian's. Victoire the Veela was all she would ever be. Maman was contented with her fate—so, why couldn't Victoire be as well?

"The train is nearly full, ma belle fille." Fleur Weasley turned back to her eldest daughter, smiling sadly as their eyes met; palest blue found palest blue, her mother's eyes the mirror of her own.

"We love you, darling," Papa's encouraging pat atop Victoire's head soothed her some—but it did nothing to quell her dissatisfaction with the burden of otherness she'd been resigned to endure. "Up you go," Bill Weasley offered his eldeat daughter an arm.

Victoire mounted the train's small, steep stairway. "Je t'aime, Maman et Papa. I always will." Her parents loved her unconditionally. They'd love her always—even if she were hideous, talentless, and morally bankrupt. Victoire cherished them both—as she did the rest of her family.

Sebastian clambered onto the train behind Victoire as her father and uncles lifted her baggage in behind them. Fleur gazed on silently, not breaking eye contact with her etoile—her star,. Her darling Victoire.

"Come on, Vic, let's find a seat, eh?" Sebastian nudged her forward. "I bet old Teddy's already hunkered down somewhere without us."

"Right," Victoire strode ahead, attempting to emit a calm sort of confidence. She must make her Maman proud. Her gaze trained slightly above eye level, Victoire travelled along the congested corridor, glancing into each compartment in search of—and there he was, as if she had conjured him with her thoughts.

A shock of brilliant turquoise shone in the dim light. Teddy Lupin, his shirt rumpled and his hands rucked into his pockets, leaned into an open train compartment.

"Oi, Vic," he called, "over here."

"Bonjour, Teddy." Silvery blonde hair swept over her shoulder as Victoire darted to Teddy's side.

"Need a place to sit?" Teddy glanced over her shoulder, offering his best friend a smirk. "And I see you found a stray."

Sebastian grumbled something about a beater's bat and Teddy's skull, but Victoire hastily cut him off. "Absolument," she beamed.

Teddy ducked back into the compartment, ushering her and Sebastian inside.

Violet-blue eyes and an ever-present frown greeted her.

Victoire winced.

"Who are you?" The other girl demanded coldly, her lip curling. The girl's limber body sprawled languidly across one of the two rows of seats. Across from her sat a younger girl who, though similar in appearance, lacked the cruel lines of arrogance inherent in her older counterpart's aristocratic features.

"This is Victoire Weasley," Teddy announced as he stepped in behind her, Sebastian close on his heels. "And you already know Baz," he quipped cheekily. "Her uncle Harry—my Godfather—helped Gran raise me. You met Harry last summer, remember?well, Vic's family just like Harry's family." The vehemence in his declaration warmed Victoire from her head to her toes.

"Vic,, this vision of radiant joy is Rowen Morgan." Teddy shoved the still-sneering girl's legs from the seats and sat. "Evangeline," he continued, gesturing to the silent girl who hunched in the window seat across from Rowen, facing the window, "is her younger sister. She's a first-year, too."

Evangeline gave a timid wave, "Hello."

"Bonjour, Evangeline," Victoire offered the bashful girl a small smile. Her heart was still pounding. Teddy had claimed her as family.

"Bonjour?" Rowen snorted. "Go back to Beauxbatons, madam. Teddy," she turned her pleading pout on him, "Can't they find another compartment? I don't want to be seen assosiating with first-years."

Teddy squared his broad shoulders. "Ro, I-"

"It's Rowen," snapped Rowen. "You know I hate it when I'm called by anything but my name."

"Fine," he sighed, placating her. "Rowen, they are staying here. If you want to leave, that's your choice. I won't turn them out. Don't you remember how nervous you were before your first time traveling on the Hogwarts Express?"

Rowen's "Hurrumph," of indignation greatly pleased Victoire in a manner which seemed simultaneously satisfying and shameful. On one hand, Rowen was being rude; she did not deserve to have her way. Then again, if Victoire gleaned satisfaction from the other girl's discomfort, was Victoire any better than Rowen?

"You can sit," Teddy said, leaning back in his own seat.

She took the seat across from him. In her seat across from Evangeline, Rowen pinned Victoire with a haughty glare. The promise of retribution was not lost on Victoire.

Plunking down beside Victoire in the aisle seat, Sebastian glanced lazily between Rowen and Teddy. "Great start we've had, eh?"

"Yes," she agreed, running her palms down the skirt of her white eyelet dress in an attempt to smooth out any creases. "Grand."

Just as she spoke, the train lurched into motion. Victoire's spirits plummeted more the farther she travelled from her home, her family, and everything she had ever known. Now, her fate laid in the fragile hands of a tattered, black conical hat.

Grand, indeed.

 **Author's Note:**

Greetings, friends!

I hope you enjoyed this little snippet in Victoire's life.

First days are always nerve-wracking, especially if you're as...well, noticeable as Victoire. I can say from personal experience that standing out in a crowd isn't all it's cracked up to be, folks.

Please don't forget to review and favorite if you like what you read. It really helps me out. Your comments motivate me to keep going—it is sad, but true.

If you're read my other stories in this fandom, you'll recognize Rowen and Evangeline. If you haven't yet read Wand-Wise, please check it out if you find the time. It follows the next generation as they are matched with their wands.

And that's it for now!

Thank you for supporting me by reading.

Love, Luna.


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